


Tuesday Night

by violenteer



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 18:03:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12563092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violenteer/pseuds/violenteer
Summary: Dean doesn't like stitches.





	Tuesday Night

It was a night like any other. Sam was studying in the main hall, Castiel was sitting quietly at the dining room table, and Dean was bleeding profusely from his right side, stitches popped open hours before.

 

“It’s not that bad,” Dean started, fingers shaking around the suturing needle he held.

 

Castiel looked at him blankly for a moment, then titled his head. Since he’d gotten back from purgatory and hell and heaven and death, he’d developed a weird little sense of humor. Dean liked it sometimes, but now he was wincing over it. Unprepared.

 

“I asked you not to go out. Sam asked you not to go out.”

 

“I did!”

 

“Shut up, Sam.”

 

“But you did it, anyway. What is this to you?” Castiel asked, pressed two fingers into the blood and guts threatening to spill through.

 

Dean sucked in a sharp breath and batted his hands away.

 

“That’s not funny, Cas,” he whispered through the pain.

 

Dean and Sam had slogged through so much bullshit. Had been beaten bloody, almost killed, laid out in a coffin too many times to count, but Dean never _ever_ got used to the sting and gnawing pull of stitches. They pissed him off like absolutely nothing else. And Castiel’s fingers taking a stroll right through the gash? Not cute.

 

“Do you like worrying me?” Castiel asked, wiping the blood from his fingers onto his own trench coat, smearing the pristine fabric a dark and deep red.

 

“It’s not really about you. There was a full-scale vamp convention in Justice, people dying every damn hour. I did what I had to do.”

 

“ _I did what I had to do_.” Castiel mocked, taking the needle from Dean and pressing a gentle but firm hand to his chest.

 

Dean sat back, glaring the entire time. The stretch of the position left his side screaming. He bit down on his lip to keep from out-and-out swearing.

 

“Sam! You wanna do your brother a favor and bring me something strong? Cas is trying to kill me.”

 

Sam scoffed from somewhere farther into the bunker, but Dean heard the clinking of glass and the heavy footfalls of his brother’s boots, so he relaxed a little. He could always count on Sammy to have sympathy for him.

 

“You were reckless.” Castiel said, his expression much darker.

 

“I did what I had to, and I don’t know if you remember, but this condition was pre-existing.” Dean shot back.

 

When Castiel’s hand fell away from his chest, Dean reached out to catch it at the wrist. Castiel stiffened up, but Dean just kept on. He brought Castiel’s loose fist up to his mouth and kissed his knuckles, eyes hard all the while. Apologetic but fuming. But hurting.

 

“Dean,” Castiel begged.

 

The fight seemed to go from him, after that.

 

Dean made a noise against his skin, kissing the bone-white knuckles over again. He kissed Castiel’s fingers, too.

 

_I know it was stupid. Don’t fucking remind me. I’m sorry._

“Come on, nurse Ratched. Sew me up before I bleed out. I don’t wanna go to hell, tonight.” But his words came out soft.

 

“I don’t understand that reference.” Castiel murmured, pulling his hand away reluctantly and pinching Dean’s wound shut so he could start the subcutaneous stitch.

 

Dean swallowed around a moan and as soon as Sam came into view, mainlined the Jack he put on the table. The stuff tasted bad, like all cheap whiskey should, but Dean focused more on the warm burn clawing down his throat. He’d lost enough blood that he’d get drunk in a few minutes if he did more than five shots, and Dean was aiming to finish the whole damn bottle.

 

“That’s okay, baby. Stitch me up.”

 

It was hard to keep from passing out after Dean started to feel detached from the pain, but each time he closed his eyes, Castiel kicked at the legs of his chair. Dean almost tipped over once or twice, but caught himself each time.

 

Dean was covered in white gauze like a mummy by the time it was all done. He looked like an idiot, but Castiel insisted. Whenever Dean so much as touched his handiwork, the angel’s eyes would flash and he would fume.

 

“Come on, Cas,” Dean murmured.

 

His voice was blurry and the bunker had dipped into darkness, only a few lamps left lit after Sam went to sleep. It was a little eerie, but mostly it was nice. Dean liked to see how the shadows played with Castiel’s face.

 

Dean reached out to cup his jaw, his other hand tugging Cas in by the hip.

 

“You need to sleep,” Castiel whispered.

 

Throughout the night and early morning, he’d gotten a little less angry. But there was still that defensive posture, that uneasy tone.

 

 Dean wanted to fuck it straight out of Cas, but he knew things weren’t really that easy. And that if he tried, he’d probably be rewarded with another round of popped stitches, rightfully deserved.

 

“Come with me. Tuck me in.” Dean slurred.

 

The whiskey was drained. Dean was feeling easy and light, something so foreign to him that everything else was starting to come easy, too. Walking, talking. Loving. Out in the open.

 

“Okay.” Castiel said, after a weighted moment.

 

They walked slowly to Dean’s room. Castiel didn’t bother turning on the overhead light, instead guiding them perfectly so Dean fell into the middle of the mattress and avoided his injury all the while.

 

“How many times has this happened, now?” Dean asked.

 

He pulled Castiel against him, and thankfully, wasn’t refused. Soon they were chest to back, their breathing falling into a comfortable step. Dean’s arms were like bars around Castiel. Like a prison. Or maybe like something a little less possessive, a little more desperate.

 

“Too many.” Castiel sighed.

 

“Yeah.” Dean returned. “Maybe it’s time to take a vacation.”

 

Dean waited for Castiel to respond, but it never happened. After a while, he relaxed into sleep. Breath slow, body loose, attitude washed away. Castiel looked back, and when he was sure Dean was asleep, turned over completely so that he could wrap his arms around Dean and tuck his face into the hunter's neck. 

 

"Maybe it is." He responded, if just to finish the act.


End file.
